


Always About John

by watsonswarrior



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watsonswarrior/pseuds/watsonswarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place in the cemetery during the final scene where John says his farewell to Sherlock. When Sherlock sees this, he can't help but think of him and the people he was forced to leave behind</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always About John

Sherlock watched.

And watched.

He watched John at his barren burial ground, saw his hand glide over the sleek obsidian, heard snippets of the somewhat eulogy he managed to choke out, to honor his friend, his only friend. John had called him human, the most human being he had ever met. He certainly did not feel as if that were true. Sherlock was a monster of the highest degree. John, his brilliant, fiercely loyal John, the one who stood by his every word, even during their final conversation. John could not be swayed to believe that he was a fake, nothing but a fraud who planned everything out. He knew the truth and believed him.

Even in “death” John never wavered in his loyalty. Sherlock kept his speech in his mind, cataloguing it to replay later, when he did not have the soldier with the creased face and peppered grey hair, eyes as deep as the sea, no longer holding that spark, so visible, tattooed on the inside of his eyelids. Whenever he blinked, John was there, always the John at the gravestone, the one who was forced into reverting back to his military lifestyle. John with his shoulders rolled back, that quick, terse nod. Sherlock wanted to run, to shout out to his beloved friend that he was, in fact, alive, that he no longer had to live in sorrow, they could be reunited and the light could finally enter back into those truly beautiful eyes of his.

He had to force himself to hold his ground. This was not about him, it never was. This was all for John, everything was always for John. Sherlock needed to ensure his safety and the only way to do so was if John believed he was dead. The words replayed fresh in his mind: don’t be dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it, stop this. Oh, if only John knew that he was less than a hundred meters away. He may not be six feet under the ground but he might as well have been. He walked as if he were a shell of the man he used to be, thinking of John, the only thing he could focus on when he was not hunting down Moriarty’s henchmen.

Yes, he would have the errant thought about Mrs. Hudson, his kindly landlady that he missed dearly, her and that magnificent cooking, the sly looks she would give him, flick her eyes to John, then back to him, give Sherlock a little wink. Oh god, she knew, of course she knew, she knew since practically day one. Mrs. Hudson may have been one of the only people in the world to be able to read him like an open book. No, he could not think of that, not right now. He thought of the tears she also shed at his so called grave and suddenly wished he hadn’t. Sherlock let his mind wander to DI Lestrade, but also wished he had not. He knew his good name would be tarnished, the only detective in the whole of NSY that was actually competent, would be kicked off the squad. Sherlock envisioned Lestrade hesitantly giving up his badge, trying to remain stoic, trying to fight back the tears because he could not think of crying in front of his old team. All of this came back to Sherlock, and he knew. All of this pain and horror and destruction were all because of his actions.

For an instant, standing slightly behind the grey tombstones, watching John as he limped away (the limp had returned, all because of him, his fault) and allowed himself to feel something for the first time in months. He did not repress the hot tears that trickled down his cold face. Everything within his entire being shouted, screamed, bellowed, to run after John and for a moment, he thought of doing so. Sherlock thought of running up to his amazing friend (his John, oh he was his and Sherlock needed him more than he needed anything in his entire life). He was unsure of what he would do, what he would say. John would, of course, be angry, which was understandable, logical even. But John was not one for grudges. After the punch he knew he would receive, John would envelop his thin (too thin) frame in those strong arms and John would certainly weep. Sherlock would hold him tight, try to get as close as he could. He would inhale the scent of John, of fresh soap, deodorant, a touch of cologne, and something else that was entirely John, his friend, his only friend, the only person he ever…No. It was all too much. Sherlock willed himself to stay back, to be a ghost of his former self, slinking behind in the shadows, watching his friend’s face contort in pain, hearing the break in his steady voice.

John became smaller and smaller until Sherlock could only make out a speck of black and a fleck of grey. Would he go back to their flat? Was it too hard to open the door and have the memories of lazy Sunday breakfasts and light teasing and case solving and frequent violin playing (which was for John, everything was for John) crash over him like a tidal wave? Sherlock could have of course followed him, walking behind him, another face in the crowd, but even seeing him from a distance was nearly enough to undo all the work he accomplished. Sherlock lingered at the cemetery for an extended period of time. After several minutes, he found it within himself to walk over to his tombstone. Sherlock graced his slender fingers over the exact spot John had placed his. His eyes shut and suddenly everything was John, it always was, only John. Their first meeting, his first deduction of him, their first dinner they shared, where John had been so willing, the hope written all over his soft face. Like the idiot he was, Sherlock snuffed all desires, telling him something about his work, how he was married to it. And he bought it, John actually took it as fact. This marked Sherlock’s first regret. Their first chase flashed in his eyes, running back to the flat (no, their flat), flushed and out of breath, laughter bubbling in their throats. Sherlock remembered feeling this intense rush. He imagined kissing John right there. He would not reject it, his intentions made clear early in the night. He imagined the kiss to be frenzied, fuled by adrenaline and pure want.

Sherlock, for the second time, thought how that moment would have gone if he only he had taken the incentive. Without knowing, Sherlock sighed at the very thought. John, his John, so close, so new, their relationship barely formed. But oh, if only he had taken him by that scratchy jumper, pulling him into his lean body, melding against John, feeling the heat of his mouth, but the kiss would not have stopped at his lips. Sherlock would have indulged, moving his lips to his jaw, behind his ear, his nose, his eyelids, everywhere. But he did not do that, regret number two.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock fell upon the gold embossed letters of his name. No date, no ‘in loving memory’, nothing. Just his name. Again, John’s crackling voice filled his ears and this time it was definitely too much. Sherlock fell to his knees, covering his face, shrinking in on himself. He wished he could drop off the face of the planet and, ironically enough, this was what the world thought. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock Holmes was no longer. Deemed a fake and a fraud, the media latched on to that for a few days, but as they always do, they dropped him as soon as a better story was released. Yet he was still there, still very much present. He clutched at his dark curls and sobbed. His body shook with convulses, the weeping was too much, he started to hyperventilate. Yes, good, Sherlock thought bitterly, maybe I will be able to die from the massive amounts of carbon dioxide settling in my lungs, there is no denying I deserve it. But death never came to Sherlock. He stayed kneeling on the moist soil, trying to find a hold in reality. That position used to be filled by John. He was his anchor, the one that kept his feet planted firmly on the ground. Once the sobs slowly abated, Sherlock touched one of the flowers in the bouquet Mrs. Hudson placed in front of his headstone.

He took a deep breath, smelling each individual flower, the familiarity nearly made him burst. These were the same ones she would sneak into their flat, she always thought it could use a splash of colour, maybe fill the place with a pleasant, floral scent to try and mask the smell of whatever experiment had gone terribly wrong. But something was different. Among the cluster of flowers were several clearly picked by John. Sherlock, once, a very long time ago, a worked a case that required him to know the meanings and symbols behind flowers (a long, messy affair that would have gone quicker if he had had an extra pair of eyes to assist him, especially since John also had a great amount of knowledge on the subject).

White carnation, could have been either him or Mrs. Hudson, but it was most likely John: a relatively common flower to put at a grave, standing for in remembrance which is what people usually do while at a grave site. Sherlock was slightly disappointed to come across only that one at first, it was so unlike John not to be creative, but then he found more, much more than he expected to find. Gladiolus, a flower meant to praise the strength of character in the receiving participant. Ah, ginger, so John must have felt proud of him. The next one that caught his eye made him misty: the bright blue of forget-me-nots, John intended to remember him forever and feel…pride for him. The last one unleashed a fresh stream of tears: a single sprig of bright violet lilac, first love. John had many girlfriends, would probably eventually find one to settle down with, but he never imagined…All those other women, did he not love them? Confusion and shame and sadness ran rampant through him. No, it was not that he did not love them, it was that Sherlock was the first one to make him realize the true meaning of the word, the magnitude those four letters hold. Sherlock felt the heavy weight of regret fall upon his shoulders yet again. Sherlock broke down, unsure whether what he was saying stayed in his mind.

John, my John, my soldier, the greatest man I have ever known, the only one…the only one I have ever felt for, the only one I have ever loved. It’s too late, I have missed my chance, so many chances to tell you, but each time the words caught in my throat. Please John, please wait for me, wait, put your life on hold, do not replace me, I will come back to you, I promise. I will stop this for you, only, always, for you. I have so many regrets John and I don’t know whether you will forgive me when I come back. John, this is worse than dying, I’d rather be dead, but it’s my turn to protect you. I cannot give up; I will not, even though I am breaking, I am coming undone. Please John, understand that this is for you, it is always for you.

Sherlock grit his teeth and stood upright, wiping the tears from his cold face, hearing thunder in the distance. He must continue to ensure the safety of the man he knew he was in love with. No matter how much it gnawed at his already shattered heart, he had to keep with his task. Each time Sherlock blinked, he was suddenly back at the top of St. Bart’s, the place in which they first met, the same place that was also the last, the irony sliced through his stomach, making him numb all over. John’s arm stretched upward, his own reaching for him. The sureness in John’s voice when he said he could, in fact, be that clever, the moment where he had never felt more love for a single human being. Sherlock wrenched his eyes open. He tried to take deep, calming breaths. He would allow himself ten seconds to mourn his only friends.

One: Mrs. Hudson smiling, handing him a steaming afternoon cuppa. Two: Mrs. Hudson tutting at the mess in the kitchen, the severed limbs in the fridge. Three: Lestrade arriving at Dartmoor, face lit up with excitement. Four: Lestrade in the flat on a “drugs bust”. The tightness in Sherlock’s chest was becoming nearly too much too handle, but he kept going, kept remembering. Five: John’s way of putting up with him when nobody else would. Six: John’s smile. Seven: John’s laugh. Eight: John’s unwavering, steadfast belief in him. Nine: John’s ability to protect him from danger. Ten: John’s closeness, his companionship, his friendship, his everything. Sherlock smiled wanly, it all came down to John in the end. It was, and will forever be, always about John.

Sherlock felt the first droplets of rain fall and trickle down his forehead. He did not have an umbrella or anything to shield him from the storm, but that did not register for him. With all his strength and willpower, he tried to suppress the memory of only people he felt close to, especially John. Sherlock inhaled deeply three times, placing his hand once more on the smooth, cold stoned. He turned, uplifting his collar to try to protect him from the wind and the steady downfall of water being wringed from the dark clouds up above. 

Sherlock had nowhere to go. He had to keep up the impression that he was dead. Everyone already believed he was long gone. So he wandered around London aimlessly, trying to remain as faceless as possible. A sudden idea struck him. He whipped out his disposable mobile with shaking hands, punching in the number he memorized while in Sweden. Sherlock’s heart swelled when he heard the tinny voice on the other end and for several seconds he could not speak and when he finally did, he realized his voice was small, thickly coated with unshed tears.

“Molly, it’s Sherlock. I…I need somewhere to stay. Molly, I need you,” Sherlock said, trying not to break into hysterics.

***

He soon found himself at the doorstep of Molly’s flat with his hair sodden, coat soaked through. When she finally came to the door, she looked the same as she did months ago, same old Molly with her long brown hair, wide eyes, and pointed nose. Without a second thought, she pulled him inside, wrapping her arms around him, giving him the hug she knew he needed.


End file.
